


Flowers In My Hair

by capriciouslouis



Series: TFP [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 11:28:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/785558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capriciouslouis/pseuds/capriciouslouis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry has known for a while that he wants to have sex with Louis, and nothing says “tonight’s the night” like a nice cup of tea and copious amounts of flowers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flowers In My Hair

**Author's Note:**

> one-shot which accompanies my fic, Turning From Praise - the sex scene was kind of omitted from the fic, but here it is!

Harry had known for a while that he wanted to have sex with Louis, and he had believed for a little less long that Louis wanted to have sex with him too, except now he was about ninety percent sure that Louis  _definitely_ wanted to have sex with him. However, Louis was sweet, and he tended to blush if Harry said anything too explicit (it was lovely, those cherry-blossom splashes on his cheeks) and although he was commendably enthusiastic once things actually got going, he was as a general rule still a little shy to initiate anything himself. Therefore, Harry figured he was going to have to do the work. 

He had three advantages: the first being that he possessed the capability of charming anyone and everyone, provided they were willing to overlook his ‘terrifying’ appearance and stopped believing that his cheery smile was a prelude to stabbing them. The second was having very understanding parents, who trusted him implicitly when he asked them to clear out of the house for the day (and night) – perhaps because they knew he didn’t have enough friends to invite to any wild parties they might have expected him to throw, meaning that he could promise Louis without any shadow of doubt that they would not be interrupted. The third was that his best friend worked in a florists.

~*~

It had always seemed hilarious to him, that Zayn, who, like himself, wore eyeliner and black clothes and always had necklaces as thick as bicycle chains hanging around his neck, clomped around in heavy black boots, wore spikes so that he looked like a silver-coated porcupine, chain-smoked and listened to Chiodos, worked in a shop selling flowers.

When he had first started the job, Harry had teased him relentlessly about it for months. It was only banter, of course, never more than a joke shared between friends, but he always found it amusing how easy it was to piss Zayn off. He’d leave the shop with wilting flower petals scattered in his dark hair, smelling floral and sweet, and Harry would wind him up by dancing around him in lieu of a ballerina, making jokes about what a sweet little girl he was, doing flower arrangements. Zayn would huff and puff and flounce off, the metallic links and chains on his leather jacket clinking, and Harry would laugh because it was funny and he was a wind-up merchant and he knew exactly how to push Zayn’s buttons.

But recently, he’d realized that Zayn’s job gave him an excellent advantage; he always had an abundance of flowers, and if ever he’d upset anyone, it was a brilliant way to get out of trouble. Yelled at his mum? Give her a bouquet. Upset someone he was dating? Bring them roses. Zayn had gotten into the habit lately of bringing Niall a flower every day. Sometimes he’d just thrust it into the blond’s hand with an awkward shuffle of his feet and a cough; other times he’d tuck it into Niall’s hair behind his ear, or into his buttonhole. They were always different flowers, too – sometimes lilies, or chrysanthemums, or rosebuds, or cuttings of obscure flower breeds no one else had heard of. Different colours, too; blood red, sunset orange, sapphire blue, royal purple, and so many different jades, emeralds, apple greens, grass greens, seaweed greens. Niall seemed to like it; Harry had been into his room less than a week ago to find every surface littered with fading, wilting blossoms that apparently the blond had been too sentimental to throw away. Harry still hadn’t forgotten the one time when Zayn had left the shop with an armful of flowers and scattered them all over Niall; petals in his hair and inside his clothes, covering him with vibrant splashes of colour like a mad artist had splattered paint all over him, bringing brilliance to his dress code of silver and black. They’d cuddled, exchanged an almost shy brush of lips, and it made Harry smile so hard that his chest hurt to see them – the happy couple. He wanted that, with Louis. After all, they’d been through enough misery to warrant a bit of fairytale happiness.

This being the case, he’d made a determined effort to stop teasing Zayn about the shop. He had to keep him sweet, after all, so he hadn’t made any quips or jibes of any sort for week, forcing the jokes down. He’d wasted so many puns that way, it was just a shame. But he figured it would be worth it, in the end.

He was taking what he considered to be a well-deserved revision break. Louis was at the bakery, working, and the thought bought a smile to Harry’s face, imagining a sprinkle of flour on Louis’ cheek, hair bundled up under one of those silly hats he hated so much, cheeks lightly flushed with the heat, tongue sticking out with his concentration as he tried to organise the buns into a pleasing arrangement in the display case. He had an eye for that sort of thing. Harry and Zayn were at the playground, enjoying a bit of boyfriend-free quiet time. It was nice to have a bit of time to just be friends with someone, lest their relationships become suffocating. That was part of what had split Zayn and Niall up in the first place.

Anyway, they were sat together in the dusk, swinging and not saying very much, the dwindling sunlight catching their jewellery and piercings and sending silver twinkles reflecting into the air, so that any onlookers might have almost thought they were sprinkled with starlight glitter. Harry had honestly  _tried_ to think of a subtle way to bring up the conversation, but he didn’t have a job to moan about to initiate the topic of work that way, and he simply hadn’t a clue how to begin. So, he abandoned subtlety, and brought up the subject of the flower shop with such attempted nonchalance that it was almost ridiculous.

“So…how’s things down at the flower shop?” he asked, staring out at the trees and trying to look blasé.

Zayn, who was smoking, exhaled in a heavy fog, nicotine mist flooding from between his previously pursed lips. He gave Harry a dirty look. “Oh, I  _thought_ you’d been very quiet about that lately, you haven’t ripped the shit out of me for the shop for  _ages_. Come on then, have a good laugh. I’m a big boy, I can take it.”

“No, no, I’m being serious!” Harry protested, “I’m genuinely interested.”

Narrowing his eyes suspiciously, Zayn took another heavy drag of his cigarette. “It’s okay…I guess…”

Harry nodded, bobbing his head. Then realized he’d pretty much killed the conversation. “Um. Get any nice…flowers in, lately?”

“Okay, what do you want?” demanded Zayn, raising his eyebrows. He’d recently gotten an eyebrow piercing, and Harry swore that even the ring through his eyebrow was looking suspicious. “Come on, why are you taking an interest in me?”

“Nothing, I –” Zayn was giving him a look that clearly said he wasn’t in the mood for bullshit, so Harry sighed and gave up. “I want some flowers.”

Zayn’s pierced and non-pierced eyebrows raised so fast that they almost vanished into his hair. He’d dyed out the blond streak, and the silver ring through his brow flying so rapidly upwards was like a shooting star disappearing into the night. “ _Flowers_?  _You_? What for?”

Well, Harry had an image to maintain; even if he  _was_ embarrassingly gooey and romantic sometimes he didn’t care to have  _everyone_ know it. Louis teased him about it, but that was okay, that was just a  _thing_  – a cute, boyfriend-y thing. If Zayn and Niall started winding him up about it, that would just be humiliating.

“ _I wish I was a punk rocker with flowers in my hair_ ,” he sang, picking up a limp, discarded daisy chain off the tarmac beside him, left behind by a child who had been playing there earlier (convenient), and placing it on top of his curls.

He expected Zayn to roll his coffee-coloured eyes and tell him he was a disgrace to the name of punk rock, as he had when he’d held Harry’s hand whilst he was getting his wings tattooed on his back and the Little Mix lyrics swirled elegantly underneath. But Zayn was perceptive today, not willing to let this go. The end of his cigarette was glowing bright orange like the dying embers of the sun that was setting behind them, and he threw it to the floor and stamped on it, grinding it against the floor under his boot. He rather ruined the impressive image by quickly picking up the crushed cigarette butt and dropping it in the bin beside the swing, giving Harry a look as if to say  _‘what? There is nothing punk rock about littering’_ , but then he quickly went back to his scrutiny, looking Harry up and down with unnerving intensity.

“Yeah, right. What do you  _really_ want flowers for?”

Harry sighed, drooping slightly as he slouched, curling protectively in on himself like a hedgehog, shuffling with embarrassment. He hated this helpless feeling, he  _wasn’t_ ashamed of this, not really, but it felt like being exposed, like his little show of false bravado even in front of his friends was another form of eyeliner. It felt strange and unnerving to take it off in front of anyone but Louis.

He knew that Louis wouldn’t think it was weird. This thing he had planned, it was a thing of beauty, romance, a thing designed to make Louis smile. It was the thought of that smile, the one with his eyes crinkling at the corners, a little disbelieving, like he didn’t believe he deserved such attentions to be lavished upon him, that little delighted flush of colour on each cheek that made Harry want to kiss him carefully, gently, like a doll – it was the thought of that smile and the knowledge that his actions would be the cause of it, that had him straightening up, taking a deep breath in, telling himself he was Harry fucking Styles and he could do fucking romantic things for his boyfriend if he fucking wanted to, and fuck everyone, and inserting the word ‘fuck’ into your internal monologue always makes you feel so much more confident about whatever the thing is that you are about to do. He had always been a firm believer in being himself, that was the whole point behind the tattoos and dark clothes and piercings, not to reflect some inner darkness or to look like a brooding vampire wannabe or because it made him look intimidating, but because he liked it, and he shouldn’t have to be ashamed of any part of him, especially not such a wonderful part. Everything Louis was involved with was amazing, like his very being intertwined with things like vines coiling through brickwork: impossible to remove without the destruction of the thing itself. Louis was a part of him now,  _this_ part of him, the shy, almost timid part, and he had no reason whatsoever to be anything but proud of that.

“I want to have sex with Louis,” he sighed, “and I’m trying to make it special. You know. Romantic.” His cheeks burned, as if someone had set fire to his face, no matter how sternly he told himself that there was nothing to be embarrassed about

Zayn’s eyes immediately softened, melting into liquid chocolate brown like Bambi, but he kept his mouth under control with a wicked little smirk. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought  _you_ were the bottom boy? Shouldn’t  _he_ be trying to seduce  _you?_ ”

Harry shrugged. “I thought maybe I might top, the first time. You know, since it’s his first time, and everything.”

“You ever topped before?”

“No, but I’m sure I’ll pick it up.”

Zayn was looking more amused by the second. “Ever fingered anyone?”

“Only myself.”

“Were you any good at it?”

“I thought so at the time, but I’d been single and horny for a while, and I guess everything feels good when you haven’t had a wank in almost two months.”

Zayn snorted. “True.” Leaning earnestly forwards, he said “you see, what you’ve gotta do, is try to get some depth into it, and drag your fingers over the prostate proper slow, like this, right?” – and then he proceeded to demonstrate, curling his fingers obscenely into the empty air.

For the next twenty minutes, Harry had to sit and listen whilst his friend earnestly explained to him the ins and outs (pun intended) of good fingering; a mortifying and slightly traumatizing experience. Throughout the whole thing, Harry sat wretchedly wishing he was somewhere else and thinking that he’d genuinely just wanted a perfectly innocent conversation about flowers. Then eventually, when the sun was dipping so low in the sky that it could barely be seen and twilight was draping itself like a cloak over the treetops, Zayn stopped with a grin, finally acknowledging Harry’s tortured expression.

“Okay, okay. Let me know what flowers you want, I’ll put some aside for you, alright?”

Harry lit up with a lightbulb-blazing smile. “Thanks, Zayn,” he said quietly.

The dark haired boy ruffled Harry’s curls and dislodged the daisy chain he still wore on top of his head, almost forgotten, and said his goodbyes.

“You should wear that more often, by the way,” he teased as he left, plucking off the flower crown and dropping it into Harry’s hands, “suits you.”

Harry’s long fingers closed around the wreath, and he smiled after his friend’s retreating back and welcomed the onslaught of ideas that that seemingly harmless comment had brought.

~*~

The preparations took a few more weeks to satisfy Harry’s urge for perfection, and it was safe to say that when it finally came about, Louis was not expecting it at all.

He came home after a long shift at the bakery, tired and with his back and shoulders aching from sitting behind a counter all day, bits of dough peeling off his forearms like dead skin, bits of it clinging to the fine hairs on his arms right up to the elbows, puffy dark shadows underneath his eyes like rain-swollen storm clouds. His apron was left slung over the banisters, and he went into the kitchen only to find a cup of tea waiting for him, still steaming, the colour of the digestive biscuit on the table beside it. Beside it was a note in Harry’s reassuring scrawl:  _Drink it then come upstairs. Got a surprise for you._

Louis smiled, sat down and drank his tea, fingers idly tracing the letters on the note. There was something about tea that seemed to loosen the knots he could feel in his shoulders, heat seeping through him and relaxing him. He wondered why Harry hadn’t made an appearance yet, but then again, Harry could be funny about his little surprises.

He finished the drink, set the mug down and ate his biscuit, and then he stretched and rumpled his hair. A silly little smile stretched across his face, excitement tingling through him at the thought of seeing the fool upstairs; he hadn’t seen him since this morning, when he’d kissed his sleepy, sleep-mussed hair and softly whispered goodbye, leaving him softly tucked up between zebra-print sheets, one eye half cracked open to watch him leave and mouth curving into a faint, tired smile. Already, he missed him. The stark dark lines of his inked arms and back. The pearly white sheen of his velvet skin. The pink rosebud of his mouth. His laugh, that always made Louis’ mouth twitch in response, his low voice like melted chocolate poured over smooth skin.

Waiting any longer to see him was a physical impossibility. Grinning all over his face, Louis leapt up and hurried upstairs, kicking off his shoes and leaving them in a heap on the bottom step. Darting up the steps on tiptoe, a trick he’d learned in order to be able to move noiselessly between the upper and lower levels so he could give Harry a fright, he planned make him jump out of his pale skin. Illuminated with glee, Louis flitted upstairs and down the hallway, and then threw Harry’s bedroom door open with a flourish.

Harry’s room looked like a rainforest, or perhaps some odd paradisiacal garden. From every available surface, flowers blossomed; piles of them on his desk, vines and creepers artistically entwined around his bedposts, piles of roses on his pillows, daisies floating in a glass of water by the bookcase. He had tulips on the chairs and lilies heaped on top of all his clothes inside the open wardrobe, violets in his pencil holder, begonias on the window sill, and dozens of breeds Louis couldn’t even name were bursting like fireworks from unexpected places. The colours were a rainbow of wild hues, bright, blazing, impossible to ignore, rather like Harry himself – not his dress sense, but his personality. Each new flower grabbed at Louis’ attention, holding his gaze, a visual cacophony. It ought to have been ridiculous, but somehow it wasn’t, because this mess of blooms all crammed into one room contrasted with each other, like an orchestra of red, yellow, purple, orange, green, pink, every colour imaginable. There were even sunflowers, huge and towering, almost touching the ceiling, anchored in plant pots and placed strategically around the room as if Harry had wanted to bring the sun itself in to watch them. The smell was almost overpowering, nature’s many perfumes all blended into one, drowning each other out so that the end result was just a few shades from being sickly – and in the centre of the room, with his back to Louis, stood Harry, wearing nothing but a huge white shirt printed with tour dates of a band who had split up before he was born, black boxers, and a wreath of pink rosebuds on top of his curls that made Louis think of Jesus and his crown of thorns.

If Harry had noticed his approach, he gave no indication of it. Louis padded across the room and laid his hands on Harry’s waist; the other boy didn’t flinch, and Louis stepped forward so that their bodies were pressed together, his chest against Harry’s back, heart beating against where the dark feathers of Harry’s wings were hidden underneath the shirt, and he rested his pointed chin on Harry’s shoulder. Rubbing his silky cheek against Louis’, Harry made a low, contented humming sound from deep inside his chest.

“What’s all this?” murmured Louis.

“Flowers.”

“I can see that. Why have you filled your room with flowers, Harry?”

“For you.” Tilting his head back, Harry widened his outlined eyes at Louis, their green brighter than the stems and leaves of any of the plants around them, and whispered, “is it too much?”

“Kind of,” Louis said with a giggle.

Harry’s lips quirked into a wry smile. “Zayn said it was. I ignored him. I guess I look kind of silly now, huh?”

“I think you look lovely.”

Beaming, Harry nuzzled Louis with his curls, trying to avoid giving him a face full of flowers. “Thanks. Good day at work?”

“I guess. Tired, now, though.”

“Not  _too_  tired, I hope,” Harry murmured mischievously, but before Louis could question it, Harry had manoeuvred neatly out of his arms and was standing behind him, pulling Louis’ shirt over his head. “Want a massage? I’m very good at them.”

“I’m sure you –  _oh_.”

Harry’s large, expert hands had smoothed down his shoulders, fluttering across the golden skin there, and then squeezed in just the right spot. It hurt a little, for a moment, but then the tension began to melt away, and Louis moaned with relief as Harry coaxed the knots out of his shoulders, kneading his muscles like dough and working all of the stress out. He was gentle, but knew when to be a little firmer with the more stubborn knots; Louis’ back cracked obediently underneath his guidance and he could feel relaxation flooding through him like he was sliding into a warm bath, all of the stiffness leaving him. As he worked, Harry trailed light, teasing kisses across his shoulders, mouthing at the top of his spine, whispering against the little wisps of hair at the nape of his neck.

“I missed you today,” he murmured. “Wanted you.”

“Oh…oh,  _God._ Missed you too, babe,” Louis groaned, arching his back, “ _Christ_ , that feels good, don’t stop…Mm…”

“I know, baby, I know. Wanna make you feel good. You look so good today, Louis. Taste good, too.” Harry began sucking insistently at the sensitive space where Louis’ neck and shoulders met, trying to make a pretty purple bruise there, and Louis sighed and tried to twist his head, meet his mouth and kiss him. Harry moved with him, refusing to be dislodged.

“Harry, your mum’s gonna be home soon, we can’t –”

“She’s not coming home,” Harry breathed, squeezing Louis’ shoulders and then continuing to run his long fingers down his back, down the smooth golden skin like desert sands, right to the base of his spine. “Her and Robin. Booked a hotel. Nice night out. Nobody else around, babe. Just us.”

Louis’ breath hitched a little, and Harry went back to his bruise. He could feel Louis shifting in his grip, and moved his hands down, sliding down his waist, taking hold of his hips. His mouth was still warm and moist on Louis’ skin, and they were both breathing more quickly now.

“You can do  _anything_ you want to me,” whispered Harry, “and as loud as we want. I’ll do what you want. I want you, Louis. Need you. Now.”

“What do you want?”

“I wanna…wanna be inside you.” Crimson stained Harry’s cheeks; the words felt too crude for what he was trying to convey, not just an act of lust, of empty sex, but love too. He didn’t know how his tongue could frame them without sounding coarse, disgusting. Like Louis was an object. His own heart was pounding, mouth still soft on Louis’ warm skin; he could feel a steady pulse thrumming against his tongue and he bit lightly at it, savouring the taste. “Wanna make love to you, Louis. Give you everything. S’all I’ve got to give.”

“Did you just say ‘make love’?” Louis asked with a giggle.

Harry closed his eyes, blushed, bit a little harder. “Shut up. Maybe.”

“You’re adorable,” Louis murmured, then he turned around and pulled Harry close.

Delicate hip bones collided with the soft curve of his tanned stomach, fingers anchoring in that tangle of hair, chocolate silk flowing across Harry’s pale forehead and spiralling by his flushed cheeks. His lips were already puffy pink with a silver glint, and he was all long, slender limbs, garden-waste bin green eyes, raspberry mouth, elegant bones and porcelain skin. His eyes were rimmed with darkness, making them look so much larger, mouth open, desperate and gasping. Louis stood on his toes to reach and kissed him hungrily; Louis tasted like cold tea and sandwiches and warm summer evenings, and Harry savoured it like his taste-buds had a time limit and it was a flavour he was about to lose. Louis’ fingers dipped underneath the hem of Harry’s shirt, washed at too high a temperature, worn and stretched until it billowed, soft and almost furry and reaching his thighs. Oh, those thighs, skinny and moonbeam white, begging to be held so hard that bruises blossomed, to be bitten and sucked at and kissed until Harry cried. Louis wanted him to get a thigh piece, to see ink splattered there for him to worship with his fingertips, with his mouth, but he also didn’t want a single dark blot to mar the pale perfection of that unmarked skin.

He pulled the shirt over Harry’s head, knocking his flower crown askew, and caught him by the elbows, half expecting his hands to stick to the cobwebs tattooed there. The flowers in the room seemed dimmed in comparison to the crimson rose on his bicep, and Louis’ hands moved to his back and almost believed he could feel the feathers sprouting from Harry’s shoulder-blades – his angel, about to take flight and take Louis with him.

The kiss deepened, their moans painting the air. Louis walked forwards, backing Harry towards the bed; they fell onto a pile of roses and Harry started laughing, pulling handfuls of crushed, woebegone flowers from underneath himself and tossing them to the floor. He caught one between his teeth, raised his eyebrows like they were about to tango. Louis caught the stem between his own teeth, clamped his lips around it and threw it to the ground with a toss of his head before resuming his frantic kissing. Needy fingers ran down Harry’s chest, across his stomach, dipped underneath the waistband of his boxers and Harry arched his back with a moan, pushing up into Louis’ touch.

Fumbling for the little bottle he’d left by the bedside, he shucked off his boxers and kicked them to the floor, whilst Louis tore at his jeans like they were suffocating him, and all of a sudden they were naked. Golden and white skin pressed together; sand on snow, the desert and the arctic, two contrasting, opposite equals. All wrong for each other, by all accounts, but this didn’t feel wrong in the slightest, and Louis moaned and rolled his hips for more friction as his dick touched Harry’s skin, brushing against his thigh.

Harry slicked up his fingers, and then his hands were on Louis’ shoulders, staring up at him with blown out pupils like splatters of oil. He growled and rolled all of a sudden, so that Louis lay underneath him, and then he wriggled down to the foot of the bed, dipped his head between Louis’ thighs and breathed, warm and hot against Louis’ entrance, making his whole body quiver.

There was no need for words. His fingertips teased at the edges of Louis’ hole and then a finger worked inside, shocked at the tightness at first, and the heat. The sensation was odd to Louis at first, but he quickly acclimatized, pushing eagerly against Harry’s finger for more. Harry gave it to him, second finger sliding in to join the first – a burning ache that made Louis bite his lips to hold back a whimper. Harry made noises of sympathy, waiting for him to adjust – then he curled his two fingers, brushing that little bundle of nerves, and fireworks exploded inside Louis.

He choked, eyes flying open and whole body jerking – then he remembered that he could be as loud as he liked, and the floodgates opened; “Harry, Harry,  _yeah_ right there, please, Harry, more, oh fu –  _fuck_!” Harry liked the noises, hearing him so raw, desperate, out of control. He scissored his fingers, and Louis sobbed and pushed against his fingers – then Harry started nibbling at the sensitive skin of his inner thighs even as his fingertips trailed across Louis’ prostate, lingering there almost long enough to overstimulate him, making him beg. Louis was needy, crying and pushing down against Harry’s long fingers while Harry whispered to him, what a good boy he was, how warm and tight, how good he felt, how he couldn’t wait to be inside him. Then, he pulled his fingers out and Louis moaned at the loss, until Harry lined up and pushed inside him. Straight and fast, because that was how Louis ripped his plasters off, preferring one instant of sharp pain than several long minutes of it, but duller.

He was tall, long enough all over to be able to look into Louis’ eyes as he fucked him, to meet his blown-out gaze unfocused with pleasure. To see his abused, bitten lips, eyes like tiny oceans in a storm, wild and dark and passionate. Mouth open in a low, endless moan, hips jerking uncontrollably in response to the slow rolls of Harry’s. Harry kissed him; his chest, collarbones, cheeks, mouth. Their groans, gasps, little pleading noises came freely, and Louis couldn’t seem to hold his back. Harry didn’t even try.

He thrusted his hips into Louis without finesse; fast, messy, breathing ragged like the hem of the shirt he’d ripped slightly when tearing it off. Louis lay back sobbing “please, please, oh please” and Harry wanted to say yes, leaning over him with that stupid fucking flower crown dangling idiotically over one eye, almost falling off;  _yes, Louis, whatever you want, anything, I’ll do it, oh God,_ but all he could do was what he was doing right now. Holding Louis’ hips, he fucked him with the intensity of everything they ever did, Louis’ fingers hard enough to bruise his shoulders, cock pressing against Harry’s stomach.

Louis’ heat around him was all he could feel, so good that he thought he might cry, and he was losing his grip on reality, simply giving himself to the sensation. Every helpless jerk of Louis’ body, the slide of his hard cock against Harry’s skin, the feel of his hands grabbing desperately at Harry and being unable to hang on, each feeling made explosions underneath Harry’s skin like sparklers and sent waves of heat pulsing right down to his dick. His mouth hung open and let out breathless groans, wordless pleas for God knows what, and his eyes couldn’t seem to stay open, but he had to look at Louis.

The warmth was building, a heat so intense he was afraid of it, but he couldn’t stop. Underneath him, Louis was sweaty and needy, crying out for him (“Harry I need it please-please-please more-more-more like that, right there like that, yeah, oh God, so good,  _please_ Harry you feel so good, I love you, oh please”) and Harry said stuff right back, stupid stuff, whatever came into his head falling from his lips, “I love you too, feel so good, oh,  _oh_ , fuck, Louis, so good, you feel so good I love you so much” – and then the orgasm was a tidal wave, a tsunami coming to extinguish the flames, and they burned all the brighter in their last moments.

Pounding into Louis so hard that it hurt them both, feeling him writhe with every brush of his prostate. Sobbing against his hot skin, biting down on the sharp point of his collarbone to try to muffle the noises. Feeling Louis grasp him like if he let go then they’d never be able to find each other again, like they’d both burn up in this heat – and then Harry came so hard that the world exploded in beautiful stars, and he couldn’t see Louis anymore; could only feel him, still hot and tight around his cock as Harry moaned. Louis was close behind him, fingers in his hair tightening and pulling so hard that Harry thought he might actually tear some of it out, whimpering as the final aftershocks shuddered through him, earthquakes on an all new and far more consequential Richter scale.

Then they had fucked, and that was that.

~*~

It took a long time for them both to come down from their highs. By the time Harry was once again capable of coherent thought, Louis had pulled the duvet over their heads, curling sleepily into Harry’s chest, apparently completely worn out. Harry could echo the sentiment.

He lay there, stroking Louis’ back, their legs entwined and sweaty foreheads pressed together, feeling like a part of him. Forget Harry and Louis; they were HarryandLouis, a single entity. Louis was as much a part of Harry as his arm, or his little toe – except were he to lose one of those things, he would miss Louis more.

They were surrounded by wilting flowers, daylight seeping away to be replaced by the night. Everything fading away and ending. Even the memories they’d just created, so colourful and vibrant now, if blurred by fatigue, would be hard to summon back one day. Nothing was going to last, not even them. Harry didn’t care about that. He didn’t care about existing, or not existing, or who had existed before him or would exist after. He didn’t care that one day his bones would be dust and no one would know or care that he ever was, that he would never have existed because no one would know about him. All that he cared about was here with him, in this bed.

“Will you sing to me?” Louis mumbled, thick and sleepy, like he was already gone. By the time Harry had opened his mouth to answer, he was already gone, pulled into the void of unconsciousness. Harry decided to sing anyway.

He cuddled up to Louis, wanting to be closer, needing their bodies to be pressed so tightly together that they might have been physically joined together. They were warm and sweaty and it didn’t feel gross at all. His flower crown had come to pieces, roses drooping and wilting; Louis had a few candyfloss pink petals in his hair, and his eyes were closed, lashes curling on his cheeks, swollen mouth slightly open. The elegant lines of his cheekbones were also flushed with exertion, and even now that sleep had claimed him, he still held Harry with a grip hard enough to hurt – but Harry liked that, feeling like Louis was trying to protect him even now. Hands trailing down his boyfriend’s spine, a repetitive stroking motion, he pressed his lips to the shell of Louis’ ear and sang in a whisper, caramel feathers tickling his face,

“ _Oh, I was born too late, to a world that doesn’t care_

_I wish I was a punk rocker, with flowers in my hair…_ ”


End file.
